


The Warden in the Gardens

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'un par La Dame Marciana [18]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Inquisition Timeline, alistair and morrigan's friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair, alone with his thoughts, his emotions and the song in his head, finds himself lost in Skyhold, faced with his past and a future he hadn't considered in ages.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for Alistair Week on Tumblr (Day 2 - Warden!Alistair)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warden in the Gardens

It’s bad enough that the song in his head is doing a number on his sense of direction. It’s worse that Skyhold is much too easy to get lost in.

When Alistair looks up, he has somehow ended up in the gardens, and he can’t really be sure how he got here – too many doors leading to too many staircases which open up to even more doors? _No, thank you._ Then again, if the Inquisition _does_ get attacked here, that might be an advantage – any enemies unfamiliar with the layout of the fortress will be too lost to organize any sort of attack.

Alistair snorts to himself, and sighs. Of _course_ his fall back is some half-assed joke, even if there’s no one around to hear it and scoff at him for it. Of _course_ he’s going to end up missing _her_ even more because _she_ would’ve laughed, whether or not she found it funny at all.

Lost in his musings, Alistair has gotten turned around again, which he realizes now is something he didn’t think even remotely possible at first considering how small and _boxed in_ the gardens are. Heaving out a small breath, he plops onto a nearby bench, watches as random soldiers and scouts and Chantry members walk past, barely even acknowledging his presence there. It makes Alistair grin.

_Ah, anonimity. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?_

“You’re a Grey Warden.”

If the voice hadn’t been so small and soft, Alistair might’ve jumped out of his skin. He pulls his gaze away from the elf pruning some elfroot stalks to the source of the question, a young boy with dark hair, probably no more than eleven years old, watching him with a quiet curiosity. There’s something slightly unnerving about the look in the boy’s eyes, an oddly familiar stare, a barely concealed smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I…Yes, I suppose I am,” replies Alistair when he realizes the boy is waiting for an answer, “What gave it away? The uniform?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, your blood,” he says matter-of-factly, “I can hear it singing.”

Alistair blinks, blinks again. The child cocks his head to one side, still smiling slightly, his eyes bright and brown and _staring_. “I…what?” is all Alistair manages to ask.

“It’s not real, you know,” states the little boy as he seats himself down beside Alistair, an arm’s length away, his toes just barely touching the grass beneath, “None of it is. The song, the dreams, the cure…Nothing is really real. Not unless we want them to be.”

“…Not real?” Alistair echoes, and he can’t take his eyes off this child now. Who is he? How does he know so much about Alistair? Does he even know what he’s talking about?

“Not real,” the boy repeats, “Only, don’t tell my mother I told you that. There are some things she doesn’t like me telling people about, this might be one of them.”

“And who _is_ your mother?”  asks Alistair, silently wondering if he really wants to know.

“You haven’t seen her?” answers the boy, “You might soon. She’s talking with the Inquisitor. I’m supposed to be at my studies, but I became bored.”

“And what of your father?” Alistair wonders as the child moves to the ground and starts picking at blades of grass, “Where is _he_?”

The kid shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, voice soft but sure as ever, “We’ve never met. Mother doesn’t talk about him much, but sometimes she’ll answer when I ask.” He looks up at Alistair again, eyes big, mouth smiling. “I don’t know your name.”

“You haven’t asked for it,” replies Alistair.

The boy is folding small thin leaves together without looking down at them. “But you have one?”

Alistair can’t help the chuckle that escapes him then. “I think so,” he tells the child, “I’m called Alistair.”

“Alistair,” the boy reiterates, as if trying it on.

“Right,” Alistair acknowledges, “What about you? Have you got a name?”

The boy nods.

“…Are you going to tell me what it is?”

The kid tilts his head a little to the side. “Do you want to know?”

Again, Alistair has to laugh. “Even if I didn’t,” he says, “It would only be a fair exchange, wouldn’t it? So, go on then, what’s your name?”

“ _Kieran_.”

But it wasn’t the boy – Kieran – who said the name out loud. The boy’s head turns, and so does Alistair’s, but it’s only Alistair who gasps. Kieran pushes himself off the ground, dusts himself off.

“Morrigan?” Alistair breathes. How had he forgotten that she was here too? And how could he not have seen...How could he not have put it together…

But Morrigan ignores him for the moment, turning her attentions instead to Kieran. “You, young man, are supposed to be studying,” she admonishes, but her voice is gentle although her tone is firm.

“It was boring,” Kieran sighs, “Alistair’s more fun. I like Alistair. He asks a lot of things. He’s a Grey Warden, mother! Did you know?”

Alistair thinks he sees something jump in Morrigan’s jaw. “I _did_ know, darling,” she replies, “Alistair is…an old friend.”

“Can I stay with Alistair?” Kieran requests.

“You should listen to your mother, Kieran,” Alistair can’t help jumping in, “Besides, I wouldn’t do much good for your education. Believe me.”

“But later?” Kieran asks, “When I’m done?”

Alistair can’t say the thought isn’t appealing, but a quick flick up to the unreadable expression on Morrigan’s face tells him everything he needs to know. “Only if your mother says it’s all right,” he tells Kieran honestly.

“Off to your books, Kieran,” Morrigan commands, voice still quiet and silky. Kieran gives Alistair a final wave before running off to goodness knows where.

Morrigan’s arms are crossed in front of her as Alistair rises from the bench and approaches her. She’s barely looking at him.

“Wow, so that’s _him_ ,” Alistair ends up blurting out as they both watch Kieran round a corner and disappear through an open door, “Wow…I thought he’d look…I don’t know, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath.”

Beside him, Morrigan lets out a sigh. “He is a _normal boy_ , Alistair,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” Alistair answers – he’s had quite a bit of evidence to the contrary, after all, “And what does he know of…how he was made?”

He’s curious now, of _course_ he would be. He mentioned never having met his father…

Morrigan takes some time before answering. “He knows his father was…a good man,” she says at last, and that makes them both turn to face each other at last, but even then, Morrigan isn’t quite looking Alistair in the eye, “I…I thought you deserved that much.”

She’s honest about it. Sincere. Alistair is quite _touched_ , really. But a part of him still half-expects some quick barb, a blind-siding sting, a left-handed compliment even.

It doesn’t come.

“He’s changed you,” Alistair notes with a small smirk.

“Don’t be absurd,” Morrigan groans with a hint of disgust.

“What? I didn’t say it was a _bad_ change,” Alistair laughs, “You’re…softer, somehow.”

“‘Tis all an illusion, Warden,” Morrigan shoots back, “A façade to make you lower your guard long enough for me to strike.”

“Ah, there’s the Morrigan I know and love to provoke,” chuckles Alistair.

“Yes, I thought you’d like that,” Morrigan breathes, but she’s clearly fighting down a small smirk in the corner of her lips.

“I meant it though,” Alistair assures her, “It’s a good change. I like this…version of you. Might even prefer it, actually.”

“I suppose I do as well,” Morrigan answers, and Alistair knows she isn’t making fun of him, “Being a mother to him has taught me many things, mostly about myself. I…I knew what I did not _want_ to be, but I did not know what I _could_ be until him. I am…happier now that he is in my life.”

The quiet joy in her tone makes Alistair grin to himself. Yes, he _definitely_ prefers _this_ Morrigan. “Well, you’re welcome then,” he offers, “I think.”

Morrigan clicks her tongue at him, but there is still humor in it. “Ah, yes, I _have_ missed your ineptitude with tact and timing, Alistair,” Morrigan snorts, “How _have_ I lasted this long without it?”

“You seem to have done all right, if you don’t mind my saying,” Alistair shoots back, and Morrigan’s smile widens somewhat.

“And yourself?” she asks, “I gather you are not here by accident or by chance. I am, however, rather surprised to find you here alone. Or am I wrong in understanding your love has not arrived with you?”

Alistair feels his mood drop like a lead weight. “No, you…you’re right,” he reveals, “I’m alone here, she’s…”

The song picks that exact moment to blare in his head, and Alistair winces against it.

“She’s what?” Morrigan asks, a hand clutching at Alistair’s arm, “Has something happened?”

Alistair knows better than to think more of that concern is for him than for her most trusted and beloved friend.

“No, she…” Alistair struggles against the volume, “Everything’s fine, we’re fine. She’s searching for a cure, out west. Far, far away from here. I think. I hope.”

Morrigan lets go of him, scrutinizes his face. Her bright golden gaze makes him blush a little. “You refer to the trouble with the Grey Wardens,” Morrigan states, “There were discussions in the war room, before you ask how I know. So she is safe then?”

“Relatively,” Alistair breathes, rubbing at his ear as if that might dull the song, “I hope so, at least. I…I don’t know.”

A heavy pause falls. “You…you don’t _know_?” Morrigan echoes, “How would…Why wouldn’t you…Your beloved, and you don’t…”

Morrigan is scolding him. Actually _scolding him_. Alistair could laugh if he was in the mood for it.

“I haven’t heard from her in a while,” he tells Morrigan, “We’re both moving around too much, it wouldn’t have been easy _or_ safe to write. Not that I’d even know where to send it, and vice versa. I’ve been on the run, can’t stay in one place for too long, so she couldn’t have found me either.”

Morrigan glares at him, arms crossed tight. Are those feathers on her shoulder actually standing on end?

“When I first knew you,” Morrigan starts, voice low, “I thought you incapable of many, _many_ things, but taking care of her? Treating her well? That, I _knew_ you would excel at. I was almost jealous even, that it came so easily to you, as if you were practiced in loving her so… _wholly_ and _completely_. That is why I was confident you would agree to my proposal all those years ago even if you loathed me with every fibre of your being. If I thought our… _sacrifice_ , if it can even be called that, has gone for naught, if I suspect that you have not been doing right by her -”

“Look, it’s not like I haven’t tried to contact her!” Alistair protests, and he honestly feels every bit the cornered teenager he was back in the day, “As soon as I got here, I asked Leliana for help to find her. Her spies find _everything_ , they’re bound to reach her, I’m just…waiting. They’ll find her. I know it. They have to.”

Alistair’s emotions get the better of him, and his throat pinches a little. Morrigan’s frame slackens, and her arms fall to her sides.

“They will,” she tells him gently, eyes kind, palm actually comforting on his shoulder, “Have faith, Alistair, lest Leliana challenge you herself to question the abilities of her spies to her face. And much as that would truly be an entertaining sight, I would not want to be the recipient of your love’s ire when she finds out your pretty face has been scratched to bits by ravens.”

Alistair snorts, chuckles. “Wife,” he corrects her, “My _wife’s_ ire.”

Morrigan actually brightens. “My sincerest congratulations then,” she offers, “You are a fortunate man.”

Alistair sighs. “Don’t I know it,” he murmurs, fingers tracing his wedding ring underneath his leather gloves, though he isn’t fully aware that he’s doing it.

It’s then that an Inquisition scout finds them, and addresses Alistair. “The Inquisitor has decided to head out to the Western Approach as soon as she can,” says the scout, “Ser Hawke suggested that the both of you could go ahead of the Inquisitor, with the Ser Harding and the forward camp to scout ahead. They’re preparing to leave as soon as possible, but not without you.”

Alistair thanks the agent and sighs. “Duty calls,” he breathes.

“So it does,” Morrigan agrees, “If you are still out when the spymaster receives word of our friend, I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as you return.”

Alistair nods. “If Kieran comes looking, apologize for me?” he requests, “That is, if you’re all right with…er, me spending time with him, of course. Not that I’m looking for any sort of…father-son bonding, but...he’s a good lad, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Nor I,” Morrigan replies, but she takes a few seconds to consider, “I…trust you wouldn’t tell him more than you would suspect I would want him to know. It would be foolish and hypocritical of me to keep him away from people simply to protect him.” Morrigan sighs, squinting towards the room Kieran is studying in. “But that is a discussion for another time. When you return from this mission, perhaps?”

“Absolutely,” Alistair replies. He winks at her, and she tuts.

“Off with you then,” she says, “Go be noble and strong and admirable and whatever else you want to be remembered as.”

Alistair briefly considers flipping her off, but doesn’t. Instead, he gives her a small nod, and tries to find his way back to his quarters, where his weapons and shield await.

 

 

**~ END. ~**


End file.
